


Been a Fool

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-04-10 23:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 14,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4411805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Assorted Tumblr Drabbles:</p><p>Descriptions and ships vary from chapter to chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gears

**Author's Note:**

> I'm marking this as done for now, but I might add to it later. We'll see.

     “I thought you were dead.”

     Simmons didn’t know what to say to that. To hear such a vocal admission from Grif was almost unheard of. He looked down at the other soldier whose head was laying on his hospital bed. Facing away from him. From his robotic eye. 

     Grif had never been afraid of looking at them before. Of looking at him. 

     Simmons didn’t remember much of it, the system collapse. Just a sudden pain in his chest and then darkness. It had happened this morning, a gear slipping loose when he got out of his cot, sending his body into shutdown. Robotic and flesh alike. One moment he'd been getting out of bed, the next he'd woken up in a hospital bed with starch sheets and an aching chest. 

     So he said what he could. “Grif-”

     Grif didn’t let him finish. It was like he couldn't let him. “I came into your room and you were on the floor. Not breathing. And I thought you were dead. Because you were.”

     Simmons tried to sit up only for his aching chest to protest. The aftermath of CPR. Grif had broken bones trying to keep him breathing. Three of them. “I’m not dead-” He tried to ignore the way Grif clenched the sheets with that statement. “I was in cardiac arrest. There’s a-”

     “Don’t get technical with me. Not now. You ass.” There was no bite in his words. Grif lifted his head enough to look at Simmons. “You were legally dead. For a minute.” He looked down to his left hand, the one with the pale freckled skin. “Because of me-”

     It clicked inside Simmons head at that very second. He reached forward, ignoring the pain in his entire body, to put his hand on Grif’s shoulder. It had been his choice to save Grif all those years ago. Grif wasn’t allowed to blame himself for it. “Grif I’m-”

     “You were fucking dead, Dick!” Simmons first name echoed in the hospital room for a second, filling up the space there. Simmons stared at Grif. Throughout the time they’d known each other, Grif had used his first name maybe three times, max.

     He didn’t have time to dwell on it. Grif was shaking now, like an earthquake, like he was about to fall apart entirely either from rage or sheer grief. Ready to explode. Simmons reached forward more and began to run his fingers through Grif’s hair.

“Okay,” Simmons said. “Okay. I’m okay.”


	2. Attention

     “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

     If Tucker was fully awake or his head didn’t hurt like hell, he’d probably have a good comeback to that. Preferably a dirty one. Instead, he blinked up at Wash, trying to understand what was going on. They were on a plane? They were flying? Dr Grey was talking about concussions?

     Wash seemed to pick up on his confusion. He was getting good at that, understanding Tucker when Tucker didn’t even understand himself.  “We were on a raid. A pirate clocked you with the butt of his gun. You managed to knock him and a few of his cronies out before you went down on us. We think you have a concussion.”

     “Oh.” Words hurt too, and they came out slurred just a little and not in the fun way, like when he was drunk. Even with his pounding skull, Tucker didn’t miss the way Wash’s eyes tightened at that. Worrying again. The man was a goddamn professional. “Is everyone okay?”

     That seemed to distract Wash. He nodded. “Yeah. Caboose has some burns on his hands from trying to rewire equipment on the fly, but he’s gonna be fine.”

     That was good. Knowing Caboose he’d shrug off those burns in no time. Tucker flinched as another wave of pain went through his head. Ouch. He looked back up at Wash, tilting his head despite the pain to get a better look. There was blood on his temple.

     It was that moment that Tucker realized that Wash had his helmet off and perhaps he did have a concussion.

     “It’s not mine,” Wash said doing that freaky mind reading thing again. He placed his hand on Tucker’s forehead. His gauntlets were cold which really helped with the pain. “You can go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

     That sounded like a great idea. Tucker closed his eyes, feeling the weariness settle into his bones like an old blanket. At the last second, it peered one eye open.

      “Wash?”

     The Freelancer sounded tense. “Yes?”

     “You know if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to put me in your lap.”

     He fell asleep to Wash’s undignified stutter.


	3. Waiting

     Wash is dying and for once in his life, Tucker can’t breathe.

     It was supposed to be a simple mission, an easy one, a quick supply run of all things. Nothing dangerous at all. When Wash had volunteered to lead the squad, Tucker hadn’t even thought about coming with, too distracted to whipping his own squad into shape. Wash was a Freelancer. Wash had survived everything. Wash was…Wash.

     When he left, Tucker had barely even bothered to kiss him on the cheek with a “see you later.” He’d been so sure Wash would come back an hour later successful as ever, putting all of them but Carolina to shame.

     Instead Wash had come back on a stretcher, barely breathing, and five hours later looking at Wash’s helmet while the man is still in surgery, Tucker still can’t do this.

     Everyone else is there too, of course. How could they not be? They’ve filled the corners of the hospital waiting room, cramping the place almost, never leaving more than two of them alone. At the present moment, the entire gang has managed to gain a free moment. Tucker can hear them waiting with him, all struggling to breath as much as he is.

     They gave him Wash’s helmet before they dragged him into the operating room. Not Carolina, not Kimball, him. A stupid Captain with a stupid heart.

     Tucker leaned forward and let his head rest against the metal plating. Tried to ignore the feeling of the cracks in the visor. Shoved away the weight of the memories of other times he’s done this, back when Wash was wearing the damn thing. Then in a whisper not soft enough to be overheard.

     “Wash, if you die, I’m gonna kill you.”

    In the operating room, Agent Washington’s heart sparks back to life.

 


	4. Tattoos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Simmons gets inked and the results are...fun.   
> Grimmons.

       “I cannot believe you got a tattoo.”

      “In retrospect, it seemed like a great idea.”

      Grif reached for Simmons’ shirt sleeve only for the other man to knock his hand away. They were back in their shared room, Simmons sitting on his bunk. Grif hovering in his personal space like it was his damn job. Grif reached for Simmons shirt sleeve again only to get knocked away once more. 

      “Dude, quit it.”

        Grif had no intention of quitting it. He threw his arm over Simmons shoulder, resting his chin on his other shoulder in the way he knew Simmons hated. The other man claimed it made him feel like an arm rest. “You go out and get a drunk tattoo and you won’t even show me it? I thought we had something special.”

       “I hate you.” Simmons pushed him off with more force than Grif thought he could muster. The robot arm did give the man some advantages. Grif found himself sprawled on the concrete floor and he glared up at Simmons. Given Chorus tech, the tattoos on the planet didn’t need to be given much time to heal. The gauze Simmons had covered it up with this morning was already gone, the ink now covered solely by his shirt sleeve. 

       “Come’on,” Grif said, sitting up. “What is it A Battlestar reference? A picture of Sarge? A girlfriend’s name or something?”

        Simmons flushed and Grif sat up straighter. “No way. You got yourself a chick’s name on there. Holy shit. You’re a walking cliche.”

        Simmons wasn’t looking at him now. Grif had to admit; he was a little hurt. He would have thought throughout their years of being friends that Simmons would have actually told him about a girl back home. It might have given Grif some warning to not fall for the man, though Grif doubted he could have prevented it if he tried. Waiting till Simmons was distracted, Grif lunged, pulling up Simmons’ shirt sleeve in one gesture.

        “Grif!” Grif didn’t listen to Simmons sputtering. His attention was entirely fixed on Simmons tattoo. Or the name plastered there. 

        “ _Dexter_ ,” Grif read out loud, looking at Simmons. The other man wasn’t looking at him. Simmons yanked his arm away, pulling down the sleeve. 

       “Happy?” Simmons snarled, getting up, stalking towards the door. Grif stood up to go after him.

       “Simmons.”

        “Just leave it,” Simmons growled, opening the door to stalk away. The sound of the door hitting the frame echoed in the room for a few moments. Grif stared at the door for a few seconds. Thought about his name etched on Simmons skin.

      “Bitters,” Grif said, on his com before he even realized he was making a call. “Where’s the nearest tattoo parlor?”

       For once, his subordinate answered promptly. “5th. Why you ask?”

      “Because I want to get a chocolate bar- why do you fucking thing, Bitters?” He was already headed out the door. He had enough credits in his wallet for a little ink. For a gamble like this, dropping a little cash could be worth it.

      The next day when Simmons stopped in his tracks at the sight of “ _Richard_ ” on Grif’s left shoulder, Grif was pretty sure his bet had paid off. 


	5. The Storage Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm pretty sure there's someone having sex in there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuckington and a surprise ship:  
> Mentions of sex but nothing nsfw.

         Here was the thing: Wash just wanted to file some damn papers.

        The base had only one place where they kept all the various files to write up incident reports. Tucked away in the far right corner of the building was a storage closet that contained nothing but papers for every possible paperwork scenario imaginable. Kimball had been the one to show him it, the war was over and someone needed to help her file, but today was the first time Wash had actually have to go there to get more supplies.

        With Caboose in charge, they were going to need a lot more “accidental fire” forms.

        So he was rather surprised when he saw Tucker hanging out right in front of the storage closet. Tucker didn’t do paperwork. Hell, Tucker didn’t even understand the concept of paperwork. Wash was pretty sure his sign up papers were the last ones he’d ever filled up. 

        “Captain Tucker,” Wash said, walking right past him. He was about to grab the doorknob when Tucker stopped him.

         “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” Tucker said, grabbing Wash’s wrist and dragging him away from the door. “I’m pretty sure there’s someone having sex in there.”

        Wash stared at him. Sex? In the storage closet? Who-

        A resounding moan from the closet cut him out of his thoughts.

        “See?” Tucker said, gesturing towards the door by leaning his head to the side. “I have no idea whose in there, but either way they’ve been at it for like half an hour, which stinks because I could really use some pens.” He glared at the door. “Yo! Storage closet is for quickies only! Get a room if you’re planning on a marathon!”

        There was a laugh from inside the storage closet. Wash felt like he’d been hit by Locus all over again. People had sex in there? This was a common fact? Tucker actually had been planning to fill out paperwork? What world had he walked into?

        “Aw shit, I broke you,” Tucker said, snapping his fingers in front of Wash’s face. Wash snapped out of his thoughts, turning to look at Tucker. The younger solider was smiling at him in a manner that seemed both amused and smug. 

      “You had no idea about this, did you?”

      “Of course I didn’t!” Wash hoped the high pitch of his voice was only in his head. “Who does that! We have rooms.”

       Tucker shrugged. “Shared rooms. All the way across base. Why walk there when you can get all the way right here.” He smirked. “Bow chicka-”

       “Please stop-” Wash said, holding up a hand. He glared at the storage closet. “I can’t believe- I mean there’s stuff crammed everywhere. You’d have no room! How can anyone actually enjoy anything in there!” 

       “You just gotta get creative,” Tucker said, his smile lecherous. Wash could feel a blush rise from his neck to his cheeks. He hoped Tucker wouldn’t notice; last thing he needed was the man to start getting ideas. Though given the way Tucker was looking at him, the ideas were already there-

       The closet door swung open. Both Tucker and Wash turned to look at the figures who emerged. As they took in the somewhat disheveled occupants, both of their jaws dropped. 

       “Carolina?” Wash said.

       “Kimball?” Tucker said at the same time.

        To their credit, Kimball at least had the dignity to look somewhat flustered. She saluted both men. Her chest plate was crooked. 

       “Captain Tucker. Agent Washington. Sorry for the inconvenience,” she walked off, her pace slightly faster than usual. Wash looked to Carolina. She was in her civilian clothes, just a t-shirt and cargo pants. She had a smug grin on her face and Wash followed her gaze to-

       “Are you staring at Kimball’s ass!?”

       Carolina looked up at him and shrugged. “It’s a good one.” She walked past the both of them and patted them on the shoulder. “Have fun boys. Watch out for the shelving in the corner. It’s sharp.”

         As Tucker snickered, Wash wished his perfect memory wasn’t so perfect after all.


	6. The Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come'on, stay with me. You still owe me five bucks."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yorklina.

      “Come’on, stay with me. You still owe me five bucks.”

       Carolina glared up at him. The effort wasn’t helping her concussion, but it was worth it for the way York flinched. She didn’t remember him taking her helmet off, blunt force trauma did that, but she could see it out of the corner of her eye on the bench.

       The jolt of flying through the air was not doing wonders for her stomach. Nausea, a great partner for a concussion. She hoped she wouldn’t puke on the Pelican; Niner would never let it go.

       “We win?” She asked, her voice steady. Thank God for the small things. York smoothed back her hair and Carolina was grateful that the mission had only required her and York. Last thing she wanted was the team to see York getting sappy over her. 

       “Kicked their ass. Thought next time,” York reached down to press a kiss into her hairline. He must have been worried. “Don’t headbutt a guy to save my skin. You’re gonna ruin your pretty face.”

       “He was going to ruin your internal organs.” She was already falling back asleep. York rolled his eyes, an easy going smile appearing on his face. Sometimes she let herself think about how much she loved that smile.

      “My hero.” And with that she fell asleep. 


	7. Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Please. I just... really need space right now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuckington, contains a panic attack

         Wash couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t know what it was like to have a panic attack. 

        He knew he wasn’t always inflicted with them. There’d been a long stretch of his life, at least twenty three years, where he’d never experienced one at all, where they’d remained as things that happened to other people and not him. But after Epsilon, after years of learning to control his own breathing and feel one coming on, the memories of living anxiety free had become more of a fairy tale in his mind, rather than a reality.

      So no, Wash couldn’t remember a life without panic attacks. Just like he couldn’t remember a life without dealing with them. Back before he became a recovery agent, he thought he’d gotten a hold on all of his triggers, thought he’d managed to balance out the medication to keep them at bay. But then they had crash landed. The medication had dried up. And Wash, despite knowing what could set him off from his project days, was still in the dark when it came to new things that could bury into his nightmares and grow.

        So losing his breath when he saw Tucker get punched right in the stomach and collapse like he’d been shot, was a surprise for them both.

        He’d managed to get away rather fast, which was a blessing. Panic attacks were easier to deal with when he didn’t have a crowd of people playing audience. Huddled in one of the storage units, Wash tapped his fingers together, counting off numbers in a steady pace as his blood thrummed in his ears and his breath grew short. One. Two. Three. 

        “Wash?” The door cracked open, letting in a slight amount of life. Wash lost count and felt his breath strangle in his throat. 

       “Tucker go away.” The man didn’t move and Wash could feel his heart twist in his chest. Like Maine had reached into his torso and squeezed. “"Please. I just… really need space right now.“

      “I can do that,” Tucker said, but he didn’t leave. Instead, he closed the door right behind them, sitting down so his back was pressed right against it. The light faded from the room, replaced by pure darkness. In the silence, Wash could almost forget that Tucker was still there.

       “One.” Wash looked up. Across the room he could hear Tucker counting. 

        “What-” His voice came out strangled. Tucker didn’t let him finish.

       “Count with me dude. You’re gonna hyperventilate if we don’t get that shit under control,” Tucker said, his voice far more soothing than Wash thought him capable. “One.”

        It took a second but soon enough Wash was able to to repeat “one” back.

        “Okay good. Now two. Three. Four.”

       They kept counting like that for a few minutes, Tucker giving out numbers, wash repeating them back. Giving him something to focus on. After ten minutes, Wash’s breathing was back to normal and while his bones felt brittle with anxiety, it was easier to keep his head clear.

        “You good?” Wash nodded. Tucker got up, reaching for the doorknob. “Awesome. I’m gonna tell they guys you ran off for some stupid Marine shit. Come back when you feel up to it. And next time-” He cracked the door open just enough for light to pour in. This time, Wash could see his smile and soft eyes. “Don’t try to deal with panic attacks by yourself. We aren’t gonna judge man. Telling us is better than passing out.”

        Wash stared at the door as it shut behind Tucker his heart caught in his throat. 


	8. No Light, No Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash didn’t see Tucker get stabbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuckington

      Wash didn’t see Tucker get stabbed.  
  
       He watches it later. It’s on record, everything on record when Epsilon is around, and Wash watches it over and over on his tablet as Tucker lies hooked up to at least three machines in the corner. There’s no audio, and for some reason, Wash feels like that makes it worse as he watches the video clip play out.

       Tucker rushes forward. A knife goes in. Tucker falls. Wash never makes an appearance. Wash was far away dealing with a concussion from Locus. Wash could have been absent as the man he loved bleed out in the dirt.   
  
       Wash hates himself for that. For that alternate reality that keeps playing out in his head. He can see himself in that world right now, huddled in his room, door locked, trying not to scream. Failing. 

       Epsilon gifted (cursed) him with memory, but imagination? That was a gift Wash had been blessed with since he was born. 

       “You can’t die on me,” Wash says, looking up at the man in the cot. He looks better, no dead is better in Wash’s book, and Grey says he’ll wake any day now. Wash still isn’t sure what he’s going to say when Tucker opens his eyes. If he’ll have the nerve. So he says it now.

      “You can’t die on me,” he repeats. York would call him a broken record. “I wouldn’t be able to take it. You’d drag what’s left of me with you.” 

       The machines beep in response.


	9. Kiss With a Fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison taught Church how to Fight

Allison was the one who taught him how to fight.

It was back in their college days, back when they were Leonard and Allison not the Director and his shadow. After getting mugged for the third time in the year, she had forced him into lessons, trying to get him to stop bruising “your stupid face.” It was a rough process, Allison never went easy on him, but she insisted and Leonard was helpless to resist. 

He hit the mat again as she flipped him over his shoulder, face forward. The cushioning saved his nose from damage, but if he’d been wearing his glasses, Leonard mused, they would have cracked at the least. Hearing a chuckle behind him, he turned to find Alison snickering at him. She didn’t look exhausted at all, her bangs just barely sticking to her forehead.

“What are you?” He said, narrowing his eyes. Tried to avoid smiling at the grin on her face. “Half shark?”

She shook her head, bending down so she was leaning just over him. “It’s called being a space Marine, Church.” She reached forward to poke the bridge of his nose. “You need to work on saving face. Literally.”

“It’s not my fault. I’m not wearing my glasses. You know how my vision is.”

She rolled her eyes. “Complainer.” He thought she was going to get back up for a second, but to his surprise, she lined forward to press the lightest of kisses to the same spot she poked earlier. Allison almost never did anything gentle, and he took the time to savor it. 

“Now get up,” she said, jumping back up onto her feet. “Unless you wanna be a loser before we even start the next round.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chex: coming home

She never comes home. Not really.

Too damaged. That’s what they say in the official reports. There wasn’t enough to send home, not to make the trip worth the expense. Leonard hates them for that, hates them for not bothering to send him the ashes, hates them for leaving him and his daughter dog tags and a photo as a corpse.

Leonard hates a lot of things these days. 

He considers burying the tags. It’s what Alison would have wanted; she never liked clinging to the past. But Leonard is weak, and as a result he keeps the tags, keeps them in his office at home and later in his office on the ship.

“You serve?” Agent Texas asks him, sitting across his desk to point at the tags. They’re long rusted, making it hard to read the name engraved in the metal. Leonard pushed them aside, away from this ghost of his wife, and shakes his head.

“Focus, Agent Texas. We’re not here to discuss my personal life.”

She doesn’t bring it up again, and that should be enough to tell Leonard that this woman isn’t Allison, will never be Allison, because Allison wouldn’t have left it there, she would have poked and prodded until Leonard spilled his secrets to her in their entirety. 

He still hasn’t gotten her right. It will take years for him to realize he never will. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarge/Grey: Tongue Tied

For an outspoken man, Sarge seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Colonel?” Grey said, watching as Sarge’s expression transformed from shocked to plain confused. His eyes were wide, staring blankly at her, and his mouth was hanging open a little. His helmet, which was tucked under his arm, was hanging by his fingertips. “I would prefer an answer within the next five minutes.”

Sarge blinked rapidly a few times, like he was trying to reboot his systems like on of his robots. He shook his head, his thick eyebrows furrowing. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I think the Blues have been messin’ with my hearing cus I could have sworn you just asked-”

“For you to accompany to the victory gala?” Grey interrupted. “Because if so, your hearing is perfectly fine. That is exactly what I asked.”

Sarge’s helmet slid off his fingers and crashed to the floor below. He didn’t seem to notice, staring at Grey like she’d grown two heads, or perhaps three. Grey was a little at a loss herself. Men didn’t normally respond to her like this. Usually they just shut her down.

Sexism was still alive and well on Chorus. Few soldiers wanted to date a woman smarter than them. Which was a shame.

“You don’t have to go if you want,” Grey kept her voice chipper. Rejection was something she was used to. “I’m fine going with myself. Or a robot. Built myself one last year entirely out of scrap. I mean, it’s only good for holding my jacket, but it’s better than most dates so-”

“Eric.”

Grey snapped out of her trance. She looked back at Sarge. “Excuse me?”

Sarge cleared his throat. “My name is Eric. Figured you outta know if I’m gonna be taking you somewhere nice.” He looked nervous, which was just strange on his face. Like he was half his age. “Only polite.”

“Colonel Eric?”

“Not quite as smooth as Colonel Sarge. If I told the men, they’d lose respect for me!”

Grey forced herself not to smile. She wasn’t doing a great job. “For having a normal name?”

He didn’t respond. Grey reached down and picked up Sarge’s helmet before hanging it back to the Colonel. He took it without looking at her.

“Well, Eric,” she said, walking past him. “I’ll see you at seven. Wear a red tie.”

She couldn’t help but grin as she heard Sarge drop his helmet once more.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons takes Grif to the circus

Simmons had been so sure that taking Grif to the circus was a bad idea.

He wasn’t an idiot. Grif had abandonment issues. Those issues stemmed from his mother. Grif’s Mom had left him for the circus. Therefore, the circus should have been a bad idea. It wasn’t rocket science. By basic logic, Simmons should have taken the pair of free circus tickets they’d gotten in the mail and dumped them straight in the trash. Save himself trouble. 

But no. Simmons had been an idiot. Because Simmons had never been to the circus. Had never eaten shit discount popcorn and cotton candy that could give even his few fake teeth cavities. His father had never taken him; he was too stern for such fun. Holding onto it for more than a minute had been a moment of weakness. 

A moment was all it took for Grif to walk into the room, spot the tickets and demand they go.

Simmons had been convinced from that point on that this trip would be a disaster. An utter disaster. The kind of disaster they spent their lives in Blood Gulch living.

So hearing the sound of Grif laugh, honestly laugh, as a clown threw a pie onstage was a curveball.

“Grif?” Grif wasn’t looking at him, his eyes on the stage, still giggling away. One of the clowns began to do a set that involved puns, and he began to laugh louder, almost cackling, holding his stomach like he had to hold it all in. 

“Oh man,” Grif said between snickers. “I used to love this gag.”

Parts of the crowd were looking at them now, Grif’s laugh wasn’t subdued, but Simmons didn’t care. All he could focus on was the sound of Grif laughing, his eyes alight, his mouth stretched into a grin.

They’d been together over a decade. And Simmons could count on one hand how many times he’d seen Grif look like this. 

“Simmons?” That snapped Simmons out of his trance. Grif was looking at him now, laughter gone, but the bemusement was still in his eyes, a smile on his face. Simmons hoped he could commit that smile to memory. “What you staring at?”

Simmons just smiled back. Thought about how much money it would take to bring Grif to the circus more often. How every cent would be worth it to see him laugh like this.

“Just enjoying the show.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donut and Grif being bros.

Grif woke up to Donut sitting on his bedside.

Normally, this would have caught him by surprise. Grif didn’t share a room with Donut, no he was Sarge’s roommate here on Chorus. Since basic, Grif had shared a room with Simmons, not the pink solider sitting on a chair next to him. But then Grif felt his stomach groan and remembered all of the sudden why Donut was the one sitting across from him instead of Simmons.

Grif was sick. Simmons was highly prone to sickness given his robotic limbs. Which left Donut as his nursemaid.

“Aim here, Mr,” Donut said, handing Grif a bucket, Grif did as he was told, emptying what little was left of his stomach into the bucket. Donut helped him sit back on his pillows after he was done, humming a little as he did.

“Hey Donut,” Grif said, throat sore. “How-”

“You’re been like this for a day,” Donut said at once. Grif had the feeling he’d asked this question before. “Simmons is fine, staying in Sarge’s while you’re down for the count. You had a really high fever earlier and we thought Grey was gonna have to check you out, but you’re better now. And-” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a battered pair of cards. “I brought cards for poker~”

Grif looked at Donut. There was a smile on his face, and while Grif was sure it was forced, he couldn’t find any evidence to support his claim. In another life, Donut would have made a great nurse. The young solider wasn’t so young now, scarred down his entire face, built like a warrior instead a of a boy. Looking at him, Grif could still only see the kid he used to be. 

Grif grinned. “Bring it on. You’re gonna go broke.”

Donut’s smile was worth the effort to talk. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Griffons high school AU

"My Dad wants you to come over for dinner.”

Grif stared at Simmons. Stared at him like the time he said he was going to try out for the football team. They were by Grif’s locker, Grif midway between collecting his shit for the end of the school day, Simmons leaning up against the locker next door like he could actually pull of looking cool. No one paid them much attention as they passed, since Freshman year Bio Grif and Simmons had become a tag team that the entire school was used to. When they started dating Junior year, no one was surprised.

“Sarge wants me to come over for dinner.” Simmons nodded. “Okay, why? Is he planning on poisoning me?”

Simmons shut his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. Not surprised, but not happy about Grif’s response all the less. “No, my Dad does not plan on poisoning you, Dex.” 

“Well there goes my first prediction,” Grif shoved another text book into his bag, then another. “Okay, maybe strangling. Shoot me with his civil war replica shotgun? Bribe your brothers to throw me into a lake in the dead of night?”

Simmons scoffed. “They would never. They-” He cut off at Grif’s expression. “Okay, Donut likes you. And Lopez is too lazy to bother.” He leaned in towards Grif, his glasses sliding down his nose. “Look, there’s no ulterior motive here. Dad just wants you over for dinner. That’s it.”

Grif rolled his eyes. “That’s never it with Sarge.”

“It is when he knows I love you enough to be pissed at him for trying anything.” It slipped out and Simmons turned bright red at once. Almost fuchsia. Grif almost dropped his pencil bag and turned to look at Simmons. Despite his embarrassment, he was still looking him in the eye.  

Grif sighed. Got up, slung his backpack over his shoulder and leaned in for a brief kiss. “Fine. But if Sarge starts talking about his damn car again, we’re gonna have trouble.”

Simmons just grinned back at him. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash + Kittens

“Oh my God. We broke him.”

Wash considers taking a second to glare at Tucker, to let him know that despite the evidence before him, he’s still the stern commanding officer who can kick his ass. It wouldn’t take more than a second, it’s just a simple tilt of the head after all, but he can’t make himself even start to form the glare.

Because there are four kittens in his lap and they’re purring and Jesus Christ, Wash has died and gone to heaven.

“Still got a soft spot for cats, huh?” Wash hears Carolina say. He doesn’t bother to respond, scratching behind one of the smaller kitten’s ears. It’s a tabby with bright orange stripes, and it purrs as Wash begins to pet down its spine. 

“Still?” Tucker sounds incredulous. Wash hears Carolina laugh. 

“Oh yeah.” That sounds like Church. “Dude used to keep photos of them in his locker during the project. It was adorable.”

“Shut up, Epsilon,” Wash says, but his voice has no heat. Two kittens have latched onto his t-shirt and have begun to climb upwards. Wash watches them, ready to catch them if they fall.

He remembers a time when he lived on Earth. When he was a boy at his father’s clinic nursing small animals back to health. What it felt like to support life so fragile.

What would have his life have been life if he stayed there? 

“This one looks like you!” Caboose is sitting in front of him now, one of the kittens in his comically large hands. It’s far too content for anything being held by a Caboose, but it does indeed look a little like Wash. Same color scheme on his armor. “We could name him dryer!”

Wash hears Tucker groan. He doesn’t bother to tell Caboose the kitten he is holding is female. Instead he reaches forward to ruffle at Caboose’s hair. Thinks of his men, his family, and how the gun on his back is another way of protecting them. About supporting the life of those who have done so much for him.

“I think that’s a great idea, Caboose,”he says and lets the mirage of a life on Earth fade into distant memory. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junior gets the bad news.

“Your Father is dead.”

That’s what they tell him. They do it twice, once in English and once in his native tongue, like he didn’t get it from the moment they walked into his academy room with a folded up flag and sad expressions. They offer counseling, and a few days off classes. Junior doesn’t take either.

They can’t offer him what he really wants. His father. His father who called him two days ago bright eyed and grinning, his father who was supposed to be here within the week.

Junior hates him a little for that. For saying it was going to be okay before dying before he could even see Junior smile.

The next week is the worst. He attends classes and ignores the whispers. Tries to tell himself that this human school is worth attending, that this is what his father would have wanted of him. That he can do this.

News reports hit the air. About aliens, about death, about war. The whispers get louder. Become shouts. And the next thing Junior knows, he is no longer welcome at his school.

As they fly him to the embassy, he thinks of the humanity he left behind and hopes his father will understand. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yorklina. This is how York falls in love.

He doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Falling in love.

It’s not like the other times it’s happened (and there has been other times, times when he was a boy and times when he was a man). Falling in love with Carolina is not a smooth journey, not a slow dive into the abyss of emotion that’s he’s used to. It’s jerky, like a rollercoaster, all edges and sharps turns. One day, he can’t stand her, can’t stand her stubbornness and her unwillingness to move. The next day, he can’t help but notice the softness that coats the edge of all her smiles and finds himself melting. 

It’s North who makes him put it into words. He’s watching her practice again, watching as she strives to hit a high target and North makes this noise like he’s been hit in the face.

“Oh my God. You’re in love with her.”

York opens his mouth to protest but he stops before he can even come up with the words. Because Carolina has taken her helmet off and her red hair is wild around her face and God, York will never be able to see that shade of crimson ever again without feeling both fond and lost.

York takes a deep breath. Doesn’t look at North.

“I guess I am.”

It is both the hardest and easiest confession he has ever made.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuckington: Wash gets nightmares. Tucker helps.

Wash wakes up with Tucker standing over him.

The other soldier looks both wary and worried. His hands are poised above Wash like he’s ready to shake his shoulders if he has to, but upon seeing Wash awake, he retracts them. As Wash gets used to the darkness around them, he can make out Tucker better. He’s almost naked except for a pair of shorts, and they look thrown on, the waistband uneven on his hips. His hair, usually pulled up into a ponytail, is hanging loose over his shoulders, and it takes Wash a few seconds to realize that Tucker must have just woken up.

“Tucker? What’s-” His voice is scratchy for some reason and Wash doesn’t really understand why. It hadn’t hurt when he’d gone to bed, and he doubts he picked up a bug in the last five hours. He reaches up to swipe at his eyes, they feel itchy and he’s horrified to find them wet. What-

“I heard you screaming,” Tucker says and it all falls together for Wash. Nightmares. Again. This time with bonus sobbing. 

“Oh God-” Wash says, throwing his arm over his eyes like he can cover the evidence. He feels too wrecked to try to come up with an excuse. Here he is, the strong solider, the guy who promised to protect Tucker and his friends, and Tucker fucking walked in on him sobbing his eyes out in his sleep. Like a child. 

“Hey. Hey-” Tucker nudges his shoulder once before gripping it. His hand is warm and sturdy on his shoulder. “Dude, this isn’t a big deal.”

Wash tries to make a noise to communicate he disagrees but it just comes out as another sob. Tucker strengthens his grip on his shoulder.  

“No, man, I’m serious. You think you’re the only one in this base whose been found sobbing like a fucking baby? It’s pretty much a team characteristic at this point.”

“Tucker-” Wash says, hoping that Tucker will leave. It doesn’t work. The other solider keeps talking.

“I’m not shitting you. Last week? The reds found Sarge crying his eyes out into a bowl of soup. Two days after that? Caboose bawled all over Simmons because the dude said something that reminded him of his sister.” Tucker paused. “Hell, two weeks ago, I was a mess myself.”

That catches Wash’s attention. He moves his arm off his eyes to look at Tucker. The man isn’t looking at him and it tells Wash how personal this confession is.Tucker, noticing he’s got Wash’s attention, looks down at him. He shrugs. 

“Junior’s birthday. I haven’t seen him in almost three years. Shit’s painful.” 

Wash thinks about that day, how Tucker walked around looking out of sorts, and feels terrible for not speaking up. “I’m sorry.”

Tucker let’s go of his shoulder. “Not your fault.” He takes a step back and gestures to Wash. “Anyway, this? Not a big deal. But fucking tell us next time. I thought you were dying or something.”

Wash tries to smile at that. “Really?” 

And with that, Tucker smirks at him. “Didn’t anyone tell you, Wash? It’s okay to cry.” 

He leaves Wash’s room at that. As the door closes behind him, Wash says one last thing to the darkness.

“Thanks, Lavernius.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuckington: Wash get's hurt, Tucker isn't happy

Wash really needed to stop bleeding. The sooner the better.

Tucker pressed harder on the wound in his friend’s side. The bullet wound wasn’t deep, thank God for that, but it was still bleeding like a bitch. Tucker’s gloves were covered in blood at this point, how much blood could a guy have, and he wasn’t liking how fast the gauze was turning scarlet.

“Well,” Wash said. He didn’t sound too terrible. It was like he’d just run a few complex drills instead of actually getting shot at. “This hurts a lot less than the car.”

“Shut up,” Tucker hissed. Outside of the cave they’d taken cover in, he could hear the rest of the squad clean up with little resistance they’d been facing. After fighting off Felix, a few space pirates were easy enough for the gang to handle. Wash titled his head at Tucker’s expression. His hair fell over his eyes from the movement. 

“Tucker. We’re going to be fine.”

Tucker snapped his gaze from Wash’s wound to his face. The man’s helmet was off, it was easier to treat the wounded when you could actually access their expressions for pain.  “Are you kidding me? We are not fine.”

“We’re relatively fine,” Wash said and Tucker sort of hated how he could be so calm about this, after being hurt. He should be the one panicking. Not Tucker.

“Fine isn’t a relative concept when it comes to bullet wounds!” There was an explosion from outside and both men prayed Caboose hadn’t gotten ahold of the bazooka launched. “What we’re you thinking with that stunt! He could have gotten you in the stomach?”

Wash shrugged. There was a flicker of pain on his face from the gesture. “He was going to get you in the throat. I was pretty sure my torso was more up to the challenge.”

Tucker gritted his teeth. He wished his own helmet was off, just so he could convey how furious he was about this, how stupid Wash had been. He wasn’t just some meat shield to throw in front of others. He was Tucker’s friend. A friend he really liked. 

“Well, you shouldn’t have to,” Tucker grumbled. He reached for the bio-foam in his belt and sprayed a little under the gauze. 

“Shouldn’t have to what?”

“Do this shit for me. You’re too important.” 

The noises outside died out, excited roars of victory coming from their friends. Tucker didn’t pay much attention to it, too focused on keeping his eyes on Wash’s stomach.

It was that focus that kept him from seeing the shock on Wash’s face.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif and Simmons dance.

When they dance, they don’t dance well. 

They don’t even dance decently. Neither of them were ever schooled in the finer arts of the skill and as a result, their joint efforts to replicate what they’ve both seen on television usually end in disaster. Limbs are bumped. Shoes are stepped on. Anything more complex than an awkward sway leads to someone on the floor. 

Even if they did know how to dance, they’d still probably be a hot mess. Their height difference makes things complicated, Simmons is a wire at best, and Grif can’t follow a rhythm for the life of him. On the dance floor, they’re an awkward swirl of limbs and confusion. Many have fallen in an attempt to get out of their way.

So no, Grif and Simmons cannot dance. But that doesn’t stop either of them from trying. Because while the process may be messy and the result often chaotic, nothing will ever stop the other from asking each other the same two words. The words that make them both shine like the sun.

“Wanna dance?”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuckington:
> 
> Does Wash know about Junior?

"Does he know about the baby?”

Tucker stares at Grif. Stares at him like Grif just asked if the sky was blue or if Caboose could be trusted with high grade weaponry. “Junior’s not a baby anymore, dude.”

They’re doing their usual thing, lying around like a couple of idiots on one of the tallest buildings in Armonia. It’s hot up on that rooftop, but hot enough to compare to their Blood Gulch days, but hot enough to set the mood for ideal conversation. They’re both laying on a towel Grif brought up, it smells of oreos, and Grif wrinkles his nose.

“Fine. Your kid. Does he know about your kid?”

Tucker looks almost offended by the question, his brows drawing together. “Of course he knows about Junior. Have you seen my wallet? It’s not fucking subtle.”

Grif shrugs. He doesn’t seem to be put of by Tucker’s irate tone. “Point taken. It’s just that kid’s can be a boner killer. I thought alien Jesus ones still applied.”

“Oh they do, which is why you tell them when you’re not fucking. That shit is not bedroom conversation.”

They’re silent for a few moments before Grif speaks again. “What’d he say?”

Tucker doesn’t speak for a minute. He’s looking up at the clouds, picturing the stars beyond them. He hopes Junior’s okay. Hopes he knows that he’s coming back to him.

“Said he wanted to meet him.”

Grif let’s out a low whistle at that. “Damn. You might have to keep him.”

Tucker can’t argue with that. 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kimbalina: Kimball can sing.

Carolina never suspected Kimball could sing.

It didn’t seem to suit her. Kimball was a warrior, a general, a woman who took the shattered shards of her nation and tried to force them back together. Her skills were those of violence, of politics, of easing an enemy into a friend when she had to. The idea that she could sing seemed foreign. Kimball was capable of beautiful words, this Carolina knew, but she never guessed she could sing beautifully as well. 

Kimball hadn’t even noticed her when she entered, still facing away from her office door. She was busy looking out her window, taking in her soldiers, her people. She was an alto, that was for sure, but when she reached for notes both high and low, she didn’t waver. 

Carolina recognized the song, though the title missed her. It sounded like gospel she’d heard while growing up in the deep South, albums her father used to play and her mother used to dance to. The thought of those days hurt a little, but it was numbed by Kimball’s voice as she worked her way into the chorus. She swayed to her own beat a little, just enough to convey she could keep a rhythm, and Carolina wondered if she could dance as well. If she would ever consider dancing with her.

Kimball finished her song and before Carolina could move, she turned around. The general’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline, but she soon schooled her expression. 

“How long have you ben standing there?”

Carolina considered lying. To save Kimball some dignity. But instead she took a step forward. 

“Long enough.” She paused. “You have a beautiful voice.” 

Kimball’s smile made the confession worth it. 


	23. Chapter 23

Wash was never going to let Simmons get drunk ever again.

He hadn’t meant to. All he’d done was pass the man a single beer; how was he supposed to know that Simmons’ cyborg enhancements made him the lightest of lightweights. When Simmons had started talking louder, Wash had started to get a clue that he’d made a mistake. It was only once the man passed out on his lap that Wash put two and two together. 

Carrying him back to his room he shared with Grif was the only logical solution. With Simmons’ robotic enhancements, he was heavy to carry, and what should have been a five minute walk doubled as Wash strained to support Simmons as they stumbled down the hall. When Grif opened the door before Wash could knock on it, Wash had never been more thankful.

Grif took in Simmons who was currently snoring on Wash’s shoulder. His gaze traveled down Wash’s torso before settling on a wet spot neat Wash’s upper thigh. 

“He drool on your pants?”

“You bet,” Wash said. Grif held out his arm to support Simmons instead of Wash, and they passed the drunk man easily enough between the two of them. Simmons muttered as he found himself handed over to Grif, and neither Wash nor Grif said a word as he buried his face in Grif’s shoulder. 

“Missed you,” Simmons muttered. Wash decided Grif deserved a medal for looking that calm while being used as a living pillow. 

“Yeah, yeah buddy,” Grif said before turning his gaze to Wash. “Look man, don’t give him alcohol. He used to have the tolerance of a fucking boar but after the surgery it went to shit. He still forgets sometimes.”

“Noted,” Wash said. Simmons was still nuzzling Grif’s neck and it said something about how damn tired Grif was that he didn’t seem to care that he was doing it in front of Wash.

“Also,” Grif took a step backward, guiding Simmons into their room. “Tell anyone about this and you die. Freelancer or not. I will find a way.”

Wash didn’t doubt it. Grif shut the door in front of his face and between the door, Wash could hear Simmons speak once more.

“Love you, Dex.”

There was a groan. “I’m too sober for this shit.” Then a pause. And finally so soft that Wash almost didn’t hear it. “Love you too.”

Neither Wash nor Grif ever spoke of the incident again.


	24. Chapter 24

Simmons had never seen Carolina drunk before, but somehow, it made her scarier.

“Simmons, get over here,” she said, dragging him to the corner of the mess hall. They were all celebrating their victory, the top brass all crammed into the small space, and Simmons was sure everyone had ingested enough alcohol to keep the base collectively drunk for three solid days. Carolina was in something casual for once, a blouse and skirt she’d borrowed from Volleyball. She guided Simmons with a steady arm. 

“If you want to play beer pong, it’s not happening. I know when I’m outmatched,” Simmons said as they passed said table. Carolina shook her head, reaching into her purse. She pulled out her communicator and popped it open.

“No, nothing like that. I just need a photo.”

“A photo?” Simmons found himself pressed against a wall and Carolina lifted her com to snap a couple of shots. “For what?”

Carolina titled the device to get a better angle. “I need to send them to Kimball?”

Simmons was no less confused. Did she need photos of them for records or something? Or was this just to commemorate the occasion? If that was the case, he’d rather be photographed when a large stain of ketchup, courtesy of Grif, wasn’t staining his shirt. “What does Kimball need a picture of me for?”

“So she can take a hint that I want to get into her pants,” Carolina said it casually, like Simmons wasn’t right there. Simmons’ jaw dropped.

“Am I drunk or did you really just say that?” Carolina didn’t answer, and Simmons felt a blush rise to his cheeks. “Carolina! Why do you need a picture of me to try to sleep with Kimball!?”

Carolina put her com back in her purse and smirked at him. She looked almost happy, which was weird but also kind of nice. 

“Don’t you get it? I’m sending her Dick pics.”

She turned on her heel at that. Simmons watched her go, before clutching his stomach and howling with laughter until he almost turned blue.

When Grif found him, he still hadn’t stopped chuckling. 


	25. Chapter 25

Wash couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this sick.

Back during the project, he’d been given every vaccine known to man, and during his time in the hospital, all his illnesses had been those of the mind. Since joining the Blues, he’d keep up his good luck, avoiding all sniffles and fevers that came his way.

It was only fitting, after surviving everything that had come his way, that he’d fall ill in their one time of peace.

He didn’t remember how he’d ended up in the hospital. He hadn’t been feeling well a few days ago, and the next thing he remembered, he was throwing up in his trash can as Carolina attempted to burst down his door by sheer force of will. 

Grey had him hooked up to the good stuff now. Chorus flu, she called it; rough, brutal, and potentially deadly if not treated. Wash was going to be okay, he’d come through with little to show for it, but that didn’t mean he felt like it. As he watched the world swirl from fever, the timelines of his world seemed to blur from past to present. When Carolina showed, he thought his sheets were those of the Freelancer hospital. 

“Carolina,” he rasped. His throat felt like hell. She smiled down at him. Her hair was shorter now, not in it’s traditional ponytail, and Wash wondered if she’d cut it.

Could the dead cut their hair?

“Shh,” she said, pulling up his blankets. “You need to sleep.”

Wash licked his lips. He was dying; sleeping was a bad idea. He needed to speak to this ghost while she was here.

“Lina’,” he said, his tone full of awe. “You came back for me. You’re here.”

Carolina’s face seemed to crack at that, regret filling her eyes. She reached forward to brush his sweat soaked hair out of his face.

“Did you really think I’d leave?”

Not until she’d died, Wash wanted to say. The world was too fuzzy for him to put the words together and instead he let his eyes slip shut. He felt a pair of lips kiss his forehead.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

Wash fell asleep and dreamt of a world where Carolina came back for him a decade ago.


	26. Chapter 26

One of the best things Simmons had ever learned about Grif was that he could sing.

He didn’t become aware of it until they were living at Red base for over a year. Grif had gone out of his way to hide it, taking showers when no one else was in the shower room, never letting a note fly until he’d checked that everyone was out on patrol. When Simmons had caught him, it’d been entirely on accident. 

He’d been walking into the kitchen to grab a snack, which was outside his regular schedule. Inside, Grif had been sweeping, punishment for forgetting the ammo once more. He wasn’t facing Simmons, using heavy strokes that managed to make the kitchen floor more messy than anything. But that wasn’t what caught Simmons’ attention. It was the low baritone that was smooth, rich, and just a little amused. 

“ _The hills are alive, with the sound of bullshit_.”

Simmons had to cover his mouth to stop from laughing.

Grif kept going, swaying a little as he kept singing his song parody. Simmons had a feeling he’d sung this before; he was sure with his lyrics and never faltered with his tone. After a bit Simmons found himself swaying along. 

“ _To sing through this canyon, like some asshole who doesn’t know what to say_.”

He stopped at that stanza, taking a deep breath before going into the next one. Simmons found himself thinking back to the song, about what came next. Before he realized it, he was opening his own mouth. Singing in a warbly, off-key tune.  
  
 _“I go to the hills when my heart is lonely.”_

Grif dropped his broom. 

Simmons thought of stopping there. Fleeing before Grif could make fun of him. But instead, he pressed on. Tried to keep from losing his pitch. 

_“I know I will hear what I’ve heard before. My heart will be blessed with the sound of music.”_

It was at that, his nerves gave out. He made a break for it, running for his room where he could hide and forget this incident. Behind him, Grif stared at the doorway he’d been in and parted his lips. This time, his voice was more uncertain. 

“ _And I’ll sing once more._ ”


	27. Chapter 27

In retrospect, setting up an old gaming system was not one of Wash’s best ideas.

It seemed like a great one at the time. There wasn’t a lot of entertainment on Chorus, and in the time after the war, it was good to have at least some distractions. When Wash had found the thing tucked away in an abandoned home, he’d counted his stars. In the wake of Epsilon’s death, they could use some fun. Having to convince Sarge to fix it up without adding any extra features was worth it considering the end game.

At least, until Wash dragged a rather sullen Carolina out of her room for a game of Mario Kart. Because Carolina’s competitiveness? It expanded to video games.

“Did you just blue shell me!” Carolina said, throwing her controller on the floor as Wash speed right past her for first place. Wash leaned back as she moved into his personal space, her green eyes alight as he resisted the urge to cower.

“I plead the fifth,” he said, hoping he sounded less terrified than he felt. Carolina glowered at him for a second before retreating back to her sitting position, picking up her controller once more. 

“We’re going again. And this time, I’m going to win.”

Wash thought about saying no for a second. He wasn’t sure he could take more competitive Carolina; he’d like to keep his stress levels low. But then he took in Carolina’s smirk. How she was leaning into the television. How the circles under her eyes had faded.

They all lost a friend on Charon’s ship. But Carolina lost a brother. And while Wash doubted he could ever fill in the hole that Epsilon left, he was okay with trying to patch it in anyway he could.

“Bring it on, boss.”

Carolina’s grin as she pressed the start button made it worth it when she tackled him three minutes later as he won once more.


	28. Chapter 28

When Epsilon gave them a fighting chance, they took it.

Grif didn’t remember most of the fight. It was a rush of bullets and noise that swirled into one in his memory, He didn’t remember catching a bullet to his shoulder, nor did he remember Simmons pulling him back to narrowly miss another. He didn’t remember how many men he had killed, he didn’t remember shoving the knife of the Grifshot straight into the chest of one of the last men standing.

He did, however, remember when Sarge had been hit. Because the grunt of pain the man had made when a knife plunged straight into his stomach would haunt him for years. 

 _Today is a good day to die_. No, it wasn’t. Not now. Not ever. 

Grif remembered running to Sarge in horrid detail. He’d grabbed the man by the armpits to drag him over to one of the corners, using all the strength he didn’t know he had. He had terrible cover, the table was long riddled with bullet holes, and Grif didn’t dwell on why he was standing in front of Sarge, gun raised, before he did it.

“You’re gonna get killed, Private,” Sarge had growled at him, his voice wet with blood. Grif hadn’t looked back at him, instead shooting off another round to keep the incoming masses away from his superior officer.

“Well then you better live to see the funeral or else you’re gonna miss your chance to get out the confetti.”

They didn’t talk for another minute, Grif shooting as Sarge attempted to catch his breath behind him. He could hear the man growing weaker and while he was still firing off shots from behind Grif, his aim was getting worse. It was only once the last soldier fell that he spoke.

“Proud of you, son.”

It was at that Grif finally turned to see the pool off blood soaking into his own boots.

He was going to make it. Grey had promised. It was the one piece of good news they’d gotten since Epsilon and Grif clung to it like a lifeline. Him and the other Reds kept shifts by Sarge’s bedside as he began to heal, keeping watch. 

It was on his third night of watch that Sarge opened his eyes and spoke once more.

“Sitting on the job? Shame on you, Private Grif. Everyone knows watches should be done at parade rest at all times.”

Grif couldn’t hide his smile when he responded.

“It’s Sergeant Grif now, you bastard.”

Sarge’s cursing the resulted was worth the wait. 


	29. Chapter 29

Colonel Sarge had a plan.

It wasn’t like his usual plans. Unlike his others, this was void of his shotgun, explosions, and berating Grif. He’d thought it out more than his other ones, going through a couple of drafts before settling on a plan of action. This was a win or die situation; either he nailed it on the first shot, or cocked it up entirely.

Colonel Sarge had a plan. And it was to ask Doctor Emily Grey on a date.

He walked through the doors to the medical clinic, trying to disguise the flowers he’d picked from outside. They were hidden poorly behind his back, some of the blooms peering out from his sides. He wasn’t wearing his armor, you didn’t ask a lady without wearing something nice, and he tried to ignore the feeling of being naked as he approached the front desk.

“Hello,” he said as the receptionist looked up. She took in his nicely ironed shirt and smiled. With his fame, there was no doubt the results of the plan would be broadcasted across base before nightfall. “Might I happen to see Doctor Grey.”

“She’s right down the hall,” the receptionist said. “Good luck, Colonel.” Sarge gave her a sharp nod and headed in the direction she pointed towards Grey’s clinic. 

He had this. He absolutely had this. He’d researched his speech and everything. He’d ask her out for dinner. Discuss robotic enhancements and programing. Maybe take a detour to yell at Grif. It would be perfect. 

Sarge stopped outside of Grey’s door and took a deep breath. Squared his shoulders. He looked more like a man going in front of his superiors than a woman. And with that, he opened the door.

Only to take in Grey covered in blood from a cadaver on her work bench.

Sarge promptly dropped the flowers.

“Oh, hello Colonel!” She waved at him with her bloody gloves. “The blood isn’t mind, calm down.” Her gaze drifted to the flowers on the floor. “Are those for me?”

Despite his claims of only being 29, Sarge was suddenly quite aware that he was too old for this shit.

What he did for love.


	30. Chapter 30

After the debrief, Wash finds them.

They’re tucked away in the ship, holed off in one of the engine rooms that is a little more stable than the rest. It’s a dark place, damp, and while the machinery has long failed, it still hums as Wash steps past the entryway into the main room. There’s a few ceiling tiles missing, most of them littering the floor, and one of the generators has rolled over entirely, nothing more than a collapsed pillar of this once great display of engineering. 

That’s where he finds them, tucked behind the pillar like school children hiding in the dark. Tucker’s still in Maine’s armor, only his helmet and gauntlets off, and Wash can see a crack in the faceplate where Tucker likely punched it. Caboose’s armor is off all together, it was too damaged in the fight, and he sits in only his under body suit, shivering in the cold.

It’s hard to tell who’s clinging to who. 

“He’s gone. He’s gone and he left-” Caboose is speaking at a rapid pace, voice high pitched and lost. His fingers are digging into Tucker’s armor, trying to grab for stability. It’s useless, Wash can tell, they’re both shaking too hard.

“That asshole. We could have done it. He didn’t have to. Not for me-” Tucker’s voice is more angry than lost, rage trying to fill the void that Epsilon left. Trying to light a fire in the dark space that he now has to live with.

Wash closes his eyes. Epsilon’s lost hurts, but not in a painful way. He was failing. He knew what was coming. He saved his friends. Wash’s family.

Wash walks forward. If they notice him approaching, they don’t mention it, and when he drags them both into his arms, neither resists. Caboose is the first to cling to Wash’s shirt, and soon Tucker follows. They don’t stop talking.

“He was my best friend-”

“I hate him so much, he was supposed to be here with us”

“I know,” Wash says. “I know.” He tilts his head up towards the hole filled ceiling. Past the remaining tiles, he can see the stars.

Wash knows A.I’s likely don’t have an afterlife. They’re data. But he sends up a prayer just in case.

_Thank you._


	31. Chapter 31

  
Grif never liked dancing.

He had his reasons. Plenty of them, to be honest. When he was a kid, people used to make fun of him for even attempting to sway to the beat. He had no rhythm. Sometimes people would step on his toes. It was only the beginning of a long list of grievances with the art.

So Grif? Not a dancer. And neither was Simmons, with his long gangly limbs and lack of coordination. But standing there, in the middle of the dance hall they’d rented for the reception, they let themselves forget about that and just sway to the beat.

“Don’t step on my toes, jackass,” Simmons said as the first song began, a slow tune they’d both picked out to save themselves from embarrassment. Grif stepped forward to lightly step on his rented shoes. 

“I’ll step on them as much as I want. You’re stuck with me now.” He reached to grab Simmons waist as Simmons put his hands on his shoulders. “Now lets get this over with before Donut steals the show.”

It wasn’t a very good dance. Not by a long shot. They stepped on each others toes multiple times throughout the affair. But the music was sweet. There was no gunfire. And despite the crowd that surrounded them, they felt like the moment was theirs alone.

When the song ended, Grif roughly dipped Simmons down. The cyborg made a loud squeaking noise, but when Grif pressed a kiss to his lips, he stopped protesting. It was a nice kiss and both of them smiled into it.

We made it, asshole.

There was a round of applause. Donut made a loud wolf whistle. Grif broke the kiss to glare in his direction.

“When he gets married, we’re buying him a fucking muzzle as a wedding gift.”

Simmons just smirked.

“Better make it pink. It is his color.”


	32. Chapter 32

Carolina finds him at the top of the shipwreck.

She wasn’t looking for him, not really. She’d been more focused on getting away from the crowds, the celebrations, the cheers that seemed to pour salt in her new wounds. The rest had retreated into the ship as well, tucked away where they could ignore the noise as well. She hadn’t seen any of them, they hid themselves well, but that was perhaps because she wasn’t really trying.

She could barely deal with her own emotions, let alone someone else’s.

When she saw Caboose sitting on a rolled over beam of metal, she planned on walking away to find a new spot. The solider was quiet, helmet off, staring out into the distance in front of him. It was a good view of the sky, nothing but stars in the pitch blackness. Almost enough to make her forget what’d they’d lost.

“I lost a sister once.”

That caught Carolina’s attention. She didn’t even know Caboose had heard her enter; he wasn’t the most observant of people. He was looking at her, his chin resting in his hands. For a second, Carolina thought he was only talking to himself until he looked over his shoulder at her. His eyes were red.

“Back before. She was a solider, like you. Liked the stars.” He pointed up at the sky above him. “Mom named her after them and she just…” He trailed off. “She wanted to see them.” He reached down for Freckles and put his hand on the barrel. The gun made a soft beeping noise. 

“I’m sorry, Caboose,” Carolina said, still rather lost. Caboose looked away from her.

“Church was my best friend.”

Carolina’s throat tightened up. She couldn’t do this. She would never be able to do this. “I-”

“He was my best friend…” He leaned forward. “But he was your brother. Family.” His shoulders started to shake. “I keep losing family. I don’t want to lose more.”

It hit Carolina at once. Grey had explained this to her, how Caboose communicated. He had trouble picking words. Paying attention. You had to puzzle it together. 

Caboose was trying to tell her that he understood. He was trying to comfort her when he too was falling apart at the seams. 

“Caboose.” The younger man still shook. She walked up over to him and sat down on the iron bar. She cleared her throat but her voice sounded wrecked when she spoke anyway. “He was your family too.”

Caboose reached up, burying his fingers in his curly hair. Carolina leaned into his shoulder, looking up at the stars as he began to sob in earnest. 

She wondered if Epsilon liked the stars too.   



	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash can't sleep. Tucker helps.

Here was the thing; Wash rarely slept well.

He used to sleep fine, back befor Freelancer. In fact, he slept better than almost anyone else on the team, passing out and staying that way most nights. But once Connie died, and shit started going sideways, a good night of sleep became rarer and rarer. And then Epsilon happened.

So no, Wash rarely slept well.

He’d come to terms with it, as much as one could come to terms with crippling long term insomnia. He took naps when the opportunities arose, he got out of bed when he was getting frustrated with not being able to sleep, he rationed his coffee enough for the nights when the dreams were bad enough to leave him with less than an hour. It wasn’t a perfect system, nothing is perfect about a chronic health problem, but it was his. Interruptions and all. 

Which was why, he thought, as Tucker wrapped his arm around Wash’s torso that he was so unused to what was happening now. 

“Dude, you are totally overthinking this,” Tucker mumbled into his back, his voice muffled by Wash’s t-shirt. “It’s sleep, not a military operation.”

Wash looked at the wall, wondering once again how Tucker managed to talk him into this. When Wash brought up how little sleep he got, he was honestly expecting the man to just take the hint to leave him alone whenever Wash managed to pass out for once. Instead, he’d gotten this. Whatever this was.

“This isn’t going to work, Tucker,” Wash said, wondering if perhaps the lack of sleep was the reason he agreed to this in the first place. It made more sense than actually thinking it was a good idea.

“Worked for Junior all the time, dude.”

Wash closed his eyes and lets out a sigh. “Junior is a child.”

“And you are a non-believer.” Tucker tighten his grip around Wash’s torso, tight enough to make his presence known, but not enough for it to be uncomfortable. “Look. Just give it an effort. Cus you really need the sleep man.”

" I function fine-”

“Two hours on good days is not fine. Now shut up and accept it.” 

Wash opened his eyes and closed them again. Trying to get comfortable was a struggle. And God, this was never going to work-

“Okay, you’re making me bring out the big guns. You’re getting a story.”

That did it. Wash flipped over and glared at Tucker, who was matching his glare back almost as well. “You’re joking.”

“I am not.”   


“I am not a child, Tucker.”

“No, you are a grown man whose insomnia has gotten so bad that you’re at risk for a fucking stroke. So no, I’m not joking.”

Wash gritted his teeth. He knew he shouldn’t have told Tucker about the insomnia; he should have known he would have talked to Doctor Grey about it. 

“Look man,” Tucker said, touching his arm. “I get it; cuddling is weird. This is weird. And if it doesn’t work, we will never mention it again. But for now, it’s the best idea I got. And I really don’t want you to have a stroke.” He met Wash’s gaze, deathly serious despite they were two grown man sharing a bed. “So. Story?”

Wash took a deep breath. Then another. And in the most long suffering voice as he rolled back over-

“If it is about your sex life, I swear-”

“Nah. I’ll keep it PG. The riveting stuff can wait.” Tucker’s arms wrapped around him again. Wash closed his eyes. “Okay. Story. So there was this idiot in my 5th grade class-”

It wouldn’t be till the morning that Wash realized he got a full night’s sleep.


	34. Chapter 34

In Simmons mind, being a cyborg had some massive downsides.

There was the constant threat of full electrical failure, the need for upkeep to keep his body running, the phantom itches that woke him up at the strangest of hours and weird vision that came with a cyborg eye. All were worthy contenders for the worst side effects ever. 

But in Simmons mind? They all fell short from the loss of his taste buds.

“Hey!” Grif shouted as he walked into their shared room, scowling as he took in Simmons hand in his Oreo stash. “I was going to eat those!”

Simmons just shrugged. “Can’t taste anything else.” He pointed to the bag of eaten chips, rations and a protein bar by his bunk. “Had to run some more tests.”

“On my Oreo stash?!”  

Simmons glared at him. Well, tried to. The cyborg eye wasn’t quite getting the memo. 

“No, on the Oreo stash they keep at the Wallmart in the middle of the canyon, fatass.” 

There was a long pause. Simmons knew if it was anyone else Grif found eating his Oreo’s, they’d have a black eye by now. But Simmons was special. In ways neither of them really liked to think about.

Grif sat on his own cot and stared at the red solider. “Can you taste them?”

Simmons ate another Oreo, chewing a bit. He could taste the faintest hint of chocolate. “A little.”

Grif sighed. Reached to the notepad he kept under his pillow. Pulled out a pen. “Looks like I’m smuggling in more Oreo’s next month.”

Simmons responded by finishing off the last of the cookie sleeve.


	35. Chapter 35

Sarge woke up after the fight in the ship in Grey’s arms feeling like he’d been hit in the head.

It was a nice place to wake up, despite the metal plating that was Grey’s armor. The doctor wasn’t wearing her helmet, discarded off to the side from what Sarge could tell, but her hair was up in a bun that always meant business. Sarge felt her press some gauze to his forehead and when she looked down at him her eyes widened.

“Colonel!” She said, a smile appearing on her face. “Nice to see you awake!”

Sarge tried to remember how he got her but his mind came up with nothing but gunfire. “I fell asleep?” 

“Nope! Ran right off the ship to our rescue team and then…” She broke off chuckling. “You fainted…straight into my arms.” She gestured to one of the other medics for a second before looking back down at Sarge. “You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

Despite the pounding in his head, Sarge couldn’t help but grin. “For a pretty lady like you? I think the extremes are absolutely essential.”

She smiled. “Flatterer.” Before Sarge could process her moving, she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Sarge felt like he got hit in the head all over again.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarge is not allowed to die.

Sarge is not allowed to do this.

Grif is making a rule. Writing it up, submitting it to Kimball, and having that shit passed. Doing actual work to outlaw this kind of bullshit. Because Sarge is not allowed to do this.

Sarge is not fucking allowed to die. 

“Keep breathing you asshole,” he says, slamming on Sarge’s chest again and man does CPR suck, he forgot how much it sucked, and he hurts all over and they’re only on the second round of compressions. Donut is dealing with the wound in Sarge’s side (bullets, two of them) and when Grif ask Simmons to deal with the men outside, the nerd didn’t hesitate to grab his rocket launcher and head out the door.

Grif can hear him now, still blasting away. Hopefully grabbing some attention from the Blues who have Freelancers, who might have fancy EMT shit that can get Sarge breathing again. 

“Come’on,” Grif says, starting to count off the third round of compressions. It is in times like these, that he is glad he is good at math, so he can’t keep shouting abuse and keep count of both the time and compressions. “You can’t do this shit to me. Not after everything you put me through. I am not fucking stepping up as team leader and adopting a Southern accent cus you couldn’t fucking stay alive.”

Donut makes a noise that sounds like a sob. Grif ignores it. Sarge does not stir as Grif counts of 16-17-18-

“Sarge, please,” Grif says.

it will be the one time in his life, he will have asked the man for anything so kindly.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolina and Tucker, after Epsilon.

This is what you know.

You are not taking it well.

Neither is Tucker. 

You find him in the training room, which is a shocker, because usually he’s only there when Wash forces him to be. The hologram system is running well, firing on all gears by the hum you can hear through the walls. He has a training holo sword in hand, good since you’ve been asking him to practice with it, and when you look up at the hologram he has programed in the system, you’re not surprised it’s the program Felix liked to train with before he shed his sheep shin to let his wolf teeth show. 

Felix’s program stabs forward, the holograph sword catching Tucker in the ribs. Tucker swears, snaps his fingers and the program starts up again, fresh. Felix’s program dives forward. Tucker takes a step back. Felix lunges. Tucker barely blocks. Felix spins on his heel to run his sword through Tucker’s head. Tucker does not move in time to prevent the holograph sword from passing through his skull. 

Tucker swears and snaps his fingers. The program starts up again.

“You need to take a break,” you say, because losing Epsilon has made you protective of those you have left. It’s deviation from your norm of shutting everyone out, and part of you wonders if it’s growth or the biggest mistake you’ve ever made. “You’ve been in here for hours.”

Tucker does not look at you. You wonder when you switched places, when he became the driven one and you became the one to step back and breath.

A small part of you, the part that is too observational for her own good, says that you have not switched places. Tucker has just become more jaded, cynical, pressing forward a drive he saved for more just causes.You, on the other hand, are just tired. 

“Not until I hit him,” Tucker says. He swipes forward and the Felix projection jumps back. They exchange blows for a bit, Tucker’s footwork is improving, and when Felix goes for the head shot again, this time Tucker ducks. You can see the moment of victory on his face right before the projection gets him right in the stomach.

“Fuck!” He drops his training sword and the light goes out. You can hear him panting in the quiet of the room.

“Tucker-”

Tucker reaches down and picks up the training sword. He holds it tighter in his grip. It’s not a good grip for sword fighting, but you doubt he will listen to your correction. 

“No,” he says. “Not until I hit him.”

Tucker snaps his fingers. 

The program starts up again.

You watch on until he drops. 


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niner worries about her brother.

When her brother got back from fighting for his life, it wasn’t without scars.

There were plenty, Niner thought, looking down at Caboose on his hospital bed. Two broken arms. One twisted ankle. A knife wound that would scar under his eye. A ton of bruises. 

None of those mattered in the long run, Niner began to realize as the days passed. What mattered were the mental scars.

The craters left from those who were gone.

“Hey Mikey,” she said, walking in. Caboose was awake often these days, no longer on quite as heavy drugs, and she pulled a sharpie out of her pocket. “Came to sign your casts. As your big sister, I got first dibs.”

Caboose didn’t answer, staring up in the ceiling. It reminded Niner of when he was five and in a mood, only this time Caboose had lost more than just a toy solider. Niner pulled up a chair next to him and began to sign her name, her real name, there in chicken scratch. 

“I miss Church,” Caboose said as she began to sign his other arm. Niner sighed. 

“I know, kiddo.”

“Why did Church have to go? _Again_.” There was more venom in his voice this time. Niner closed her eyes. There were so many answers to that question. She doubted none would provide her brother any comfort. 

“I don’t know, Mikey. I don’t know.”


	39. Chapter 39

It was suppose to be a documentary.

That’s what the filmmakers were advertising it as, anyway. A documentary about the Civil War on Chorus, nothing more, nothing less. It’d been advertised all over planet for almost a year now, a supposedly groundbreaking feature film in plot and special effects and for the months leading up to its release, Wash had regarded the whole affair with a type of apathy he’d specialized over the years. 

This was what he registered about it. It had him in it, on the poster. It would probably be terribly inaccurate because none of the filmmakers interviewed him personally (not that Wash would have answered their questions). The guy they’d cast to play him had the jawline of a model. And Wash was not going to watch it.

Until Tucker came home one day, turned on the television with a gleeful smile and yelled “you will not believe this shit”

Which was how Wash learned this so called “documentary” was pretty much a terrible porno without the porn. 

“Dude, look at this shit-” Tucker said, pointing to the two characters on the screen who were suppose to be them. The man playing Tucker was more fit than Tucker had been in perhaps his entire life. From the background and props, Wash figured this was supposed to take place after Tucker was stabbed by Felix. 

Normally that memory turned his stomach. Now he just felt vaguely uncomfortable. Because when he’d visited Tucker all those years ago, the man had been attached with wires and a breathing tube, blankets covering his entire body. 

This “Tucker” had no such breathing tube to cover his pouty lips, and the sheets were pulled down to show off his rippling muscles and the long bandage there.

“That is not sanitary,” Wash said as his acting counterpart brushed his hand across the bandage. “There could have been an infection. We didn’t have enough supplies-”

“Tucker,” Movie Wash says and Wash fell quiet. “You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.”

There was a long beat of silence from the two men sitting on the couch as movie Tucker suddenly opened his eyes and reached up to pull movie Wash into a kiss that was obscene. 

“I don’t talk like that!” Wash said, throwing his hands in the air. “And our first kiss was nothing like that! It was awkward.”

“Fuck you man, our first kiss was brilliant,” Tucker said, turning his head as movie Wash took off his shirt. “You know, we should try to reenact this. Might be hot.”

The glare Wash shot Tucker was withering.


End file.
